


Year of Coppélia

by papergardener



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1870, Backstory, Ballerina, Ballet, F/M, Franco-Prussian War, Gen, Leap!, Paris Opera Ballet, Siege of Paris, Slow Burn, coppelia - Freeform, creation of a ballet, determined to finish this, historical fiction - Freeform, i love these characters, meradette, originally began as fanfiction but it's really not, there's a lot of history in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-28 23:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13914750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papergardener/pseuds/papergardener
Summary: 1870. Odette is a young corps dancer for a new ballet, Coppélia, and she's suddenly pulled from her spot as a wallflower to deal with a  a young untested star, a prima in drag, and a new ballet master. Then things take a nasty turn as war settles in Paris.Historical fiction inspired by 'Ballerina.'ON HIATUS





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The New Star of the Show  
  
Jan 18, 1870  
(13 years before movie)  
  
Odette stood with her back to the door, breathing hard and wishing she could wipe away the sweat trickling down her cheek. Despite her efforts, rehearsal was already well underway. She watched Arthur Saint-Leon, the ballet master and choreographer, lead the dancers through their barrework. More than one glanced at her with a smirk, and her face grew warm.  
  
“Good day, mademoiselle,” the ballet master said in a stern voice, walking up to her as the rest of the class did a series of stretches. “You’re late.”  
  
“I’m very sorry, monsieur.”  
  
“Do you have any excuse?”  
  
She pressed her lips together. The truth was she had been up until well past midnight the previous night working, and had not woken on time. But it wasn’t enough.  
  
“No, monsieur.”  
  
He sighed, and Odette felt a real pang of guilt. She knew how important this new ballet was to him, and this was the first day of rehearsal.  
  
“Your pay will be docked for this. Go join the rest. Do not show up late again.”  
   
She gave a quick bob and hurried to her place, keeping her eyes down as she passed the long line of girls along the barre. She found a spot amongst the other coryphées, the girls on either side shifting away in obvious annoyance. Staring straight ahead, ignoring the glares, she set herself in fifth position- arms swooping down unti the fingers just touched, her legs crossed.  
  
“Switch to battements, starting in third,” the ballet-master said and struck his cane on the floor with a solid ‘thump.’  
  
As the minutes passed, Odette’s heart calmed as she settled into a familiar rhythm, trying to subtly stretch as they trained. As a group they moved on to battements derriere- swinging their legs from behind to the side in a smooth kick, first on flat feet and then en élevé. Her legs at least were warm enough from running to the theater, although she could feel a stiffness in her ankles she would need to be careful with.  
  
As class progressed Odette noticed a strange chill in the room, almost sour. Had she so disrupted class that they were all angry at her? Or had she missed some important announcement earlier? Had Saint-Leon done something to upset everyone?  
  
It was unsettling. And confusing.  
  
They finished their barre work with quick stretches before Saint-Leon called for a break before the real rehearsal began. The room filled with hushed whispers as some girls went to their bags on the edges of the room, while others kept at the barre and exercised on their own. Odette stayed there, going through the usual stretches that she had missed before. As she did so, she took stock of her fellow dancers for this new ballet. She recognized almost all of them, having spent years dancing alongside them in various operas and ballets.  
  
There came a whisper behind her. “She should be ashamed, standing there happy as you please. She didn’t _earn_ that role.”  
  
Odette stiffened but didn’t glance back, only continued her stretches with a greater awareness and a new tension in her shoulders. Who was she talking about? Odette overheard other mutterings and noticed many of the dancers were scowling. Something was going on.  
  
“Must think she’s so much better than the rest of us,” one dancer standing nearby whispered to her friend. “How could they pick _her_ over Angela or Leontine?”  
  
The other dancer whispered back, “Bet it’s because she cozied up to the director. And she’s a foreigner.”  
  
Odette leaned towards to the nearest dancer, Francine, and whispered, “Pardon, but who is everyone talking about?”  
  
Francine rolled her eyes but Odette ignored it.  
  
“Her,” Francoise said in a low voice, jutting her chin towards the other end of the room. “See the new girl? That’s the newest principal dancer, and the lead of the ballet- she’ll be taking over for Adéle.”  
  
“What, her? She’s just a child!” Odette said, louder than she intended. She brought a hand to her mouth and looked over to see the new girl turning towards her. Odette glanced away before she could meet her eyes.  
  
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Francine said mildly. “That was Saint-Leon’s big surprise- a brand new lead, one who’s never even danced in a show before.”  
  
“ _Bon Dieu!”_ Odette said under her breath. A dancer who went from nothing to principal, just like that? A girl who had never been in the corps before, never even performed? That stung. No wonder the other dancers were in such a foul mood. All of them, including Odette, had spent years working their way up from the rank of _petit rats_. They had toiled through countless hours of practice and rehearsal, they had struggled and fought and endured- all to get a chance to perform on stage. Some spent their entire career as a corps member, never even advancing to the rank of coryphée. And here was this child, jumping past all of them.  
  
“I suppose she could fool us all,” Beatrice muttered to Francine, ignoring Odette completely. “Maybe she has a brimming fountain of talent beneath that pathetic look.”  
  
“I saw her training- there’s no way,” Francine said. “Her form was sloppy and tired. Especially compared to Fiocre and the other principals.”  
  
“What do you expect from some little girl from the countryside, probably picked up from some dirty old farm.”  
   
There was a small peal of laughter from another corner of the room, and there was something distinctly mean about it. Perhaps the ballet-master also picked up on the tension simmering amidst the dancers, because soon after that he called for rehearsal.  
  
“I’d like everyone to start with the mazurka dance in act one. Find your partners, you should already know all this from before.”  
  
There was a flurry of skirts as they went to their groups, Odette finding her assigned quadrille and stood beside her partner, a slim beautiful girl named Rosette who pulled a face and took a slight step away, just to signal her displeasure. Odette didn’t react, she was too accustomed to it and knew better than to show any weakness.  
  
“Huh, no sign of Mérante,” one girl in her quadrille whispered below the general noise. “That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”  
  
Odette frowned and looked around the room. Sure enough, the young ballet master was missing, although he was often at their rehearsals. However, it made no difference to her whether he was there or not, and Saint-Leon was a highly experienced choreographer, surely he didn’t need another’s help. The violin struck a familiar tune and they begun, going up and down their lines and recalling the steps they had learned months earlier.  
  
Then after some minutes, Saint-Leon called out, “Mademoiselles Fiocre and Bozzacchi, to the center, if you please.”  
  
Every dancer pretended not to watch as the two women stepped together, as different as they could reasonably be.  
  
Eugénie Fiocre arrived first, stepping to her place with a practiced ease. She was blonde, buxom and brazenly confident. Odette had never spoken to her personally, but Fiocre was a familiar face at the Opera, and her presence had an almost soothing effect on the ensemble. Not only was she an accomplished principal dancer, but also a woman popular with the patrons, and seemed to have the Opera wrapped around her finger.  
  
Then the other girl stepped beside her, and in comparsion, she looked small, dark and ill. Odette looked at her pinched face and wondered if she had slept at all the night before. She looked young, and not in a good way. More in the way that Saint-Leon had apparently chosen a mere child to carry his new ballet.  
  
Odette felt an elbow in her side and realized she had been staring too long. She took a firmer grip on Rosette’s hip and continued leading the mazurka, unfortunately all too comfortable with her role _en travesti_. It meant she’d be one of the peasant youth boys during the performance, and for better or worse she pulled off the look well enough. She knew she didn’t have the desirable roundness, the softness, nor the gaiety that was expected of dancers.  
  
There was a yelp from the middle of the room and every head turned to stare at the two lead dancers: Eugénie Fiore holding her slippered foot with a look of pain, and her new partner holding her hands to her mouth with a look of horror. There was a ripple of understanding and growing disapproval. The new girl had just trod on the foot of one of their top dancers.  
  
“Is she serious?” Rosette muttered with a scowl.  
  
To step on another girl’s foot was common enough, especially with their long tulle skirts and quick feet, but with everything else she was doing it seemed a lack of respect for her partner and, perhaps worse, complete inexperience.  
  
“Mlle, Fiocre, you’re all right,” Saint- Leon said uncertainly, managing to make it sound both a question and a command.  
  
“ _Oui,_ monsieur,” Eugenie said before facing her partner again, who seemed to have shrunk in the past minute.  
  
Rehearsal never quite recovered after that, and it was a sour, tense lot who stood together as it came to an end.  
  
“Everyone, thank you very much for an excellent first rehearsal,” Saint-Leon said, but his cold tone spoke far louder than his words. “I’m very much looking forward to working with all of you to make _Coppélia_ a ballet that Paris will not forget.”  
  
Not a very inspiring speech, Odette thought as she walked to the dressing rooms amidst the crowd of other girls, all who seemed eager to leave. They were all whispering with each other, some laughing and others furious. Odette kept quiet.  
  
“Well, that was terrible,” one girl said.  
  
“So much for Saint-Leon’s new ballet, what a farce.”  
  
Odette kept her head down as she squeezed her way through the girls lingering outside the door to the coryphée’s dressing room. Once inside, she quietly moved to the far side of the room. Next to her were two dancers talking to each other.  
  
“Come on, Marie, you can’t say this doesn’t bother you. You’ve been here as long as any of us, and you’re ok with some little whore from nowhere becoming the new principal dancer? The lead of a new ballet? It’s an insult!”  
  
Marie didn’t have much to say to that.  
  
"Maybe you should give her a break,” Odette said softly, not raising her head. “It was her first day.""Oh? Sticking up for her, are we _varifille_?” a familiar voice said coldly, and Odette grimaced, not realizing Regine had been there. “What, trying to suck up to the ballet master? You won't get very far if you keep showing up late."

   
"That was only today,” Odette said sullenly.  
   
"Whatever. I wouldn't try making friends with a principal dancer. Not like she'd want anything to do with a low-class whore like yourself. Not unless she was desperate. Or maybe you should! You guys might have a lot in common after all. I think everyone noticed that your form was extra sloppy today.”  
   
Odette felt her face heat up, keeping her head down as she unlaced her second ballet slipper, her fingers shaking so she could barely grip them. The conversation thankfully moved back to the new girl, yet Regine’s words made her pause.

  
She didn’t have work that evening. And there wasn’t a performance to rehearse for. Maybe she should stay a little while, with any luck the room will be empty and she could practice in peace for once. With a sudden eagerness lifting her heart, she re-laced her shoes, adjusted her skirt, and again quietly slid through the throngs of girls, many already going home.  
  
One good sign was the halls were mostly deserted as she walked to the rehearsal room, with only a few people talking in the hallway and giving her only a passing glance. It had been a long time since she had been able to practice alone, and she was actually looking forward to it, only praying that everyone else had already left for the day.  
  
With a deep breath she opened the heavy door and was relieved to find it silent. The room was empty. Or it would have been, except for one girl standing by the mirror, facing away with her bowed head in her hands. The door creaked a little when Odette opened it too wide, and the girl spun around and met Odette’s eyes. Just as quickly she looked away. It was indeed the new lead, and she was crying.  
  
Odette hesitated, one hand still on the door handle, and seriously considered turning and walking away.  
  
“Ah, pardon me,” the girl said, brushing her eyes. “Did you need the room?”  
  
“I was… just coming to practice a little,” Odette said, still standing at the open door. “I was late to rehearsal, so I was going to train.”  
  
“Would you prefer if I leave?”  
  
“No, no, it’s all right.”  
  
Neither girl moved. The awkwardness took on an almost physical presence as Odette clutched the handle tight before shutting the door behind her and walking over to the barre. The slight tap of her soft-soled shoes on the hardwood and the rustle of her tulle skirt was almost soothing, just for the fact it seemed to cut through the heavy silence. Not knowing what else to do, Odette set a hand on the barre and went through the basic positions from first through fifth: slow, methodical, steady. She’d done them thousands of times, and there was a comfort to their rhythm.  
  
The other girl didn’t move or speak, just glanced nervously at her. Odette was about to say something, as soon as she could think of it, but then the younger girl took two hesitant steps towards the barre and, after a pause, began to do the positions as well.  
  
Soon they were in the same rhythm- first, then second, then third… then after a couple times of that they each moved on to different steps and stretches.  
  
Odette watched her, thinking back to how she’d danced in rehearsal no less than an hour earlier. She was completely changed. Her movements were soft and fluid, she had good arm positions, clean lines, strong kicks… she looked fine.  
  
“You have good form,” Odette said, before grimacing at how surprised she sounded.  
  
“Thank you,” she said softly. Then after a moment, she stopped, her arms falling to her side. “I… I’m sorry for today. For being such an idiot in rehearsal.”  
  
“Well, it was only the first day. Were you nervous?”  
  
“Yes,” she mumbled, looking embarrassed. “I couldn’t sleep last night, I was just so terrified and excited about today… and, and it was a disaster!” She wrapped her arms around herself like a child, pouting.  
  
“It wasn’t that bad.”  
  
The girl glared at her, and Odette realized they were both being stubborn.  
  
“I’m not deaf, I know what everyone is saying. They’re all wondering if Monsieur Saint-Leon will choose someone else, and maybe they’re right. I was awful. They should pick another girl.”  
  
“Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself?”  
  
She sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “I’ll have to apologize to Madame Dominique too,” she said, seemingly more to herself than Odette. “And after she recommended me—“  
  
“Wait, you’re studying with Madame Dominique?” Odette was shocked. Madame Dominique was one of the best ballet masters in Paris, many of the top dancers studied under her. “I had no idea. No one else seemed to recognize you.”  
  
“Oh… we were all in different classes,” she said with a shrug.  
  
“See? I bet she did pick you for a reason. And tomorrow’s a new day!”  
  
The girl looked at her with a doubtful smile.  
  
Odette gave a laugh, surprised at herself. “Trust me, I’m not usually this optimistic. Don’t expect this again.”  
  
She laughed as well. “Oh, well I’m not usually this pessimistic! Although I am usually this much of an idiot, so that’s not unusual.”  
  
Odette grinned and stuck out a hand.  
  
“I’m Odette.”  
  
She took Odette’s hand in both of hers, her hands and smile very warm. “Giuseppina.”  
  
Odette looked around the empty room. “Well, now there’s no one here but me. Would you like to give it another try?”  
  
“What? Do you mean I dance, and you watch and give me advice?” she said, looking skeptical.  
  
“No, not that. I mean-“ Odette paused, feeling self-conscious. Then in a pique of inspiration, she stood tall and raised her arms over her head and spun her wrists around each other. Looking the other girl in the eye, she held her hand out.  
  
_Dance with me._  
  
Giuseppina paused, gazing at the offered hand, then her shoulders relaxed and she beamed at Odette before mimicking her, twirling her wrists about each other and stepping forward to place her hand in Odette’s.  
  
Odette had originally intended to dance alone, but found it was much nicer with a partner as they leapt and twirled, mimicking and encouraging each other. They already knew most of the same dances from the ballet, and settled into a very loose re-enactment of the wheat dance, both shaking imaginary ears of wheat by their ears and then giving each other exaggerated shrugs before giggling and bounding up onto one foot.  
  
Odette looked at themselves in the mirror, and for a moment she simply marveled… it had been so long since she had truly enjoyed dancing. It was… it was… her mind stuttered as she looked in the mirror and found herself staring into dark eyes from a man watching from the shadows.  
  
She screamed.


	2. The Watcher at the Door

Jan 18, 1870

  
“Louis! There you are.”  
  
Louis Mérante turned at the call of his name and saw Arthur Saint-Leon striding towards him along the dim hallway. He waited beside a bright-lit sconce, rubbing his hands together to warm them against the winter cold.  
  
“How was rehearsal?” he asked as they continued down the long hallway, passing one ornate window after another.  
  
“Don’t ask… awful. I hope yours went better.” Saint-Leon sounded miserable, and quite unlike his usual good-natured self.   
  
“I’m sure they’ll pick up to your standards soon enough,” Mérante said with a warm smile, well aware that his fellow ballet master had high expectations. “Well, as for me, I have no worries for tomorrow’s performance. Luckily it was only a few dancers I had to re-train, and one of them had been an understudy.” He had been in charge of additional rehearsals for the divertissement in the opera,  _La Prophete,_ and while the group had been rusty at times, they picked up quickly enough.

  
“Good, good..." Saint-Leon muttered, nodding his head. "Although knowing that, perhaps I would have insisted on having you with us today. _Bon Dieu_ , it was a disaster.”  
  
“You’re exaggerating.”  
  
Saint-Leon shook his head with a sigh. “My new principal was a failure, and I had such high hopes for her. And her poor showing infected the whole lot of them: lazy, inattentive, always giggling and whispering. One girl absent- sick, so her mother says- and another showing up ten minutes late. What a miserable start. And such bad luck for a new ballet!”  
  
“Your new principal dancer? The one personally recommended by Madame Dominique?” Mérante asked, surprised. He knew of the long search for a lead, and how they had chosen a young girl from the ballet school.   
  
“Recommended, yes. And I’ve seen her dance before, she was superb! Bright, vivacious, excellent _ballon_ and expression, just what I had been looking for. But none of that was present today. I’ve never seen her so tense or stiff. It was quite depressing, in truth.”  
   
“Perhaps she was nervous- it was her first time dancing with the company after all.”  
  
Mérante opened a door to an ornate hallway, holding it open for Saint-Leon as they moved to the entrance hall.  
  
“You may be right,” Saint-Leon conceded, although he didn’t sound optimistic. “But even so, I can’t be holding her hand through every rehearsal. I told Madame Dominique I wanted youth- I wanted innocence and vitality! Not inexperience. Maybe I should convince the director to just go with Léontine instead. At least I know she can dance. And!” he said suddenly, gazing about the almost empty entrance hall, “and now she’s late!”  
  
“Late?” Louis said, bewildered and also looking around as they stopped at the edge of the hallway. It was nearly empty, only some workers hurrying along and a small group of men lingering near the door, all wearing heavy winter coats against the January cold.  
  
“Yes, she’s late! I have several patrons coming tonight, all excited to meet the new star of the ballet, and she’s nowhere in sight.”  
  
“You told her to meet you here right after rehearsal? In the grand vestibule?”  
  
“Yes, yes. I told her… wait. Oh no… No, I didn’t. I was so distracted I forgot to mention it. I was to tell her to meet here and then we would all walk to Restaurant Peter’s. I hardly have the time to go chase her down. _Putain!_ There is Monsieur Perrin now,” he said in a low voice, as the director walked to the group by the door.  
  
Mérante looked down the length of the foyer: there was no girl anywhere in it, nor anywhere in sight.  
  
“I’ll just have to go explain it to them and ask them to wait,” Saint-Leon said, then in a lower voice. “I hope she’s still in the building.”  
  
“I’ll go look for her.” Merante pulled out his pocket watch, noted the time. “If I’m not here in 10 minutes you may head out and I will bring her to the restaurant as quick as I can.”  
  
“Louis, would you do that? That would be incredible. Do so, if you please. And...” Saint-Leon gave him a pointed look, “will you see that she is presentable?”  
  
“Certainly,” Mérante said with a short nod, then took off back the way they had come, walking briskly along the long courtyard running the length of the theater to the dancer's dressing rooms.  
  
Halfway there he remembered he had no idea what she looked like. He stopped, wondering if he should go and ask, but decided against it. It should be fairly obvious, he hoped. He went to the back entrance along Rue Druout and asked amongst the few girls and their mothers milling around before walking out into the cold.  None of them had seen her.  
  
In the narrow hallway to the principal’s rooms he passed Blanche Montaubry leaving for the night, but no one else. She hadn’t seen the girl either, making him grow increasingly nervous. If the girl had left already he would have no chance of catching her.  
  
Fortunately, he didn’t need to guess which dressing room was hers, for it was adorned with a small nameplate, written in beautiful script. He held his breath and put his ear close to the door, but only heard silence, both behind the door and in the empty hallway.  
  
He knocked three times.  
  
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle Bozzacchi? Are you in there?”  
  
If she wasn’t there, where was she? He tapped his foot without meaning to, glaring at the dark wood as if he might convince it to open by force of will.  
  
He knocked again, louder. “Mademoiselle?” he said, his voice unnaturally loud in the narrow hallway.  
  
“Hey Mérante,” a woman said from close behind him. He turned to see Eugénie Fiocre leaning against her dressing room doorway with her usual cocky grin, looking beautiful as ever. Mérante sighed.  
  
“Eugénie,” he said flatly, ignoring how she was only half-dressed. “I’m looking for Mademoiselle Bozzacchi, have you seen her?”  
  
“Not since rehearsal. Ha! You missed it, Mérante, it was a disaster!” she said with a laugh.  
  
“ _Pour l’amour de Dieu_ …” Mérante muttered, rubbing his temples. He was beginning to think all this pessimism was infectious. “Surely it can’t have been that bad.”  
  
“No, it was really bad. Saint-Leon’s newest muse was awful. And rude. She barely even spoke to me and I’m her partner!”  
  
“Did you actually try being nice to her?” Mérante said with a pointed look.  
  
She looked abashed, but only slightly. “Fine, perhaps I wasn’t being my best self, either. But it really was bad. She wasn’t even a good dancer- she messed up a _soubresaut_!”  
  
He frowned- that was a basic two-footed jump.  
  
“How did she mess up, exactly?”  
  
“She landed on my foot.”  
  
He sighed.  Mérante glanced at his pocket watch; Saint-Leon was supposed to leave for the restaurant in four minutes. “I don’t have time for this. Do you have any idea where she is?”  
  
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she was off crying somewhere,” she said, picking at her thumbnail.  
  
“Eugénie!”  
  
“I’m serious! Look, go check the practice room and if she’s not there, come back and I’ll help you look for her, all right?”  
  
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it,” he said curtly, hoping that if he did come back, she’d be fully dressed.  
   
“Good luck!” she called out as he left, his thoughts swirling as he passed through the shadows of the theater.  
  
Was Eugénie right? Could she be crying somewhere? The whole thing was alarmingly unprofessional. First a poor first rehearsal, and now this damned search. He felt a mix of pity and irritation towards the girl for having to chase her all through the opera house. Would he find a girl bawling her eyes out somewhere? And then what? He wasn’t great at comforting people, and he’d never even met her.  
  
It was a few minutes for him to get to the rehearsal room, half-jogging and staying alert for any girl he hadn’t met before. If he had just seen her before it would have been easier! Coming to the door, he slowed and rested his hand on the sturdy wood, preparing himself.  
  
Then he heard laughter.  
  
He straightened, looking over his shoulder in case he had misheard. But it had definitely come from the other side of the door. Could this be his crying girl?  
  
The handle turned slowly, barely making a click before he nudged it open an inch, paused, then opened it enough to peer in.  
 

There, inside, were two girls dancing.  
   
Silently he slipped in, pressing his back against the door and simply watched. The two figures were small as they twirled about in the large room, yet they seemed to fill the space, like twin flames against a winter chill.

He studied the shorter of the two. She was young, with dark hair and an unfamiliar face. That must be her, he thought with great comfort: Guiseppina Bozzacchi.  
  
The professional part of his mind urged him to call out, to tell the girl to get going to meet Saint-Leon, but he was wholly disinterested in interrupting them. It would have been as sacrilegious as stumbling upon a ring of sylphs and then barging in to ask directions.  
  
  
Mérante then looked to the other girl, slightly taller, stick-thin and plain. That was… that was… damn, he forgot her name. He recognized her from classes but had never paid her much attention. The mystery girl spun, the tulle skirt fanning about her waist, then she leapt, high and smooth, before landing and sinking down almost to her knees. She had an incredible lightness he wouldn’t have expected from her, a delicacy of movement while still strong and precise. She reminded him of someone, although he couldn’t place it.  
  
Odette! He thought quite suddenly, the name springing to his mind. Of course, Odette Emarot, he thought with great complacency.  
  
Then the sharp burst of joy fizzled with confusion.  
  
Odette? Really?  
  
He thought back to all he knew of her… a quiet girl who stayed in the back and clung to the walls, although her technique was decent enough, if a bit muted. None of that shyness was present as he watched her dance with the other girl, both all smiles and laughter. He had never seen her dance like this. Or ever seen her look so free.  
   
They were delightful, just watching them was a joy.  
  
The smaller girl stooped in fourth position and rattled her hand by her ear with an expectant smile. Mérante didn’t understand: were they miming? She was listening for something, apparently. Then she did a single pirouette and stood eagerly looking to Odette, who cupped her ear, paused as if listening, then shrugged her shoulders theatrically, frowning and shaking her head, before both burst into laughter.  
  
Mérante marveled. In all the years Odette had been at the ballet, he had never heard her laugh. It was utterly charming.  
  
He watched their faces in the mirror, feeling strangely invisible in the room, almost as if seeing them dancing through a lens, as if he was an invisible audience. Odette rose up, her arms gliding at her side, as if she was about to take flight. Then she looked in the mirror at the same time as him. Their eyes met and for the briefest of moments, less than the beat of a heart, everything stood still…  
  
Then she screamed, and the soft world shattered.  
  
Mérante leapt back, banging his head against the door.  
  
“Sorry, sorry!” he called out, squinting through the pain. The younger girl had also jumped at the loud shriek and was on the verge of fleeing like a scared dove. Mérante stood crab-legged, pressing his hands to his pounding head, and tried to think past his utter shock. It was as if the world had suddenly stopped spinning for a moment, and they were all recovering.  
  
“Oh! It’s just you.” Odette stared wide-eyed at him.  
  
“Yes, yes, it’s me,” Mérante said, and couldn’t keep out the peevishness from his voice as he rubbed his head, a bump forming beneath his dark hair.  
   
“ _Merde alors…_ ” Odette muttered, holding a hand to her heart and sinking lower. Then louder, she said, “My fault, monsieur.”  
  
“Is everything all right?” the younger girl asked, sounding nervous.  
  
“Yes, it’s fine, fine just... _ugh_ , my heart,” Odette groaned theatrically, bending over her knees.  
  
“Pff, you’re like an old man,” the other girl teased.  
  
Odette paused and looked up at her, still bent doubled and looking distinctly ridiculous. Then she made an even longer “uuggh!” and was rewarded with a snort of laughter.  
  
A stifled laugh escaped Mérante as well, despite throwing a hand over his mouth. The two girls tensed, both glancing his way before they straightened themselves with an embarrassed air. The joy in the room evaporated, becoming colder. He fidgeted as he remembered he was a maître de ballet, and therefore had to act like it. And, he thought with a grimace, perhaps he shouldn’t have been spying on them in the first place.  
  
“Please excuse me,” he said, finally stepping forward into the room. ”I hadn’t meant to startle you.”  
  
“No, no, it’s fine. I overreacted,” Odette said, her cheeks faintly pink.  
  
He then looked to the other girl, who was watching him with some trepidation. “And you must be…”  
  
“Oh! You haven’t met?” Odette half-turned to her friend and waved towards Mérante. “Giuseppina- this is Louis Mérante, one of our dancers and ballet master. Monsieur Mérante, may I introduce Giuseppina Bozzacchi.”  
  
“ _Piacere di conoscerla_. A pleasure to meet you,” he said, offering a low bow.  
  
“ _Oh!_ _Anche tu_ ,” Giuseppina said with a soft curtsy and a warm look at hearing her own familiar tongue. “ _Parla Italiano?_ ”  
  
“ _Abbastanza bene._ _Ho usato a ballare alla Scala_ , _molto anni fa_ ,” He said, enjoying how easily the language came to him after his years in Milan.  
  
“ _Davvero!”_ she said, as excited as a child. He smiled, warming to her immediately.  
  
A movement caught his eye as Odette took a careful step backwards.  
  
“Pardon… if you’ll excuse me,” Odette said quietly, trying to be discreet. But Giuseppina spun around with a faint look of alarm and took her gently by the arm.  
  
“Forgive me, that was rude,” she whispered, but not so quiet he couldn’t hear. Odette nodded, and stopped looking like she would try and escape again. Guiseppina looked almost regretful as she let go of her hand. Mérante noted how Odette stepped just a breath closer to her, as if to reassure her. It was a nice reaction. He tucked the idea into the back of his mind for later in case he might find some use of the movement in his choreography: it was simple, effective, and quite endearing.  
  
Giusppeina turned back to Mérante, fumbling for words for a moment and then catching them. “You, ah, you are working on _Coppélia_ as well, monsieur?”  
  
“I am. Not as a maître de ballet, or not officially at least. However, I will be dancing in it. I may help out here and there with choreography, but this is M. Saint-Leon’s passion. And speaking of, please forgive me for missing your first rehearsal.”  
  
“Oh not at all,” she replied quickly. “It was, um, it was not ver—“  
  
“Monsieur Mérante, did you need the room?” Odette asked in an _almost_ polite tone, although it seemed an obvious distraction from talking about rehearsal.  
  
“No, not quite. In fact, I’ve just come from the foyer where the director and M. Saint-Leon are waiting for you,” he said, nodding to Giuseppina. “They wish to take you to dinner tonight and meet some of the theater’s patrons, and sent me to fetch you. I admit I wasn’t expecting you to still be here with Mademoiselle Odette.”  
  
“Oh!” she gasped, slightly horrified. “I’m sorry! I’ll go right this moment.”  
  
“Please do. Once you're ready, I’ll meet you at the entrance hall and will escort you to the restaurant.”  
  
“Thank you, I’ll be quick!”  
  
She turned, then paused and turned back again, gripping Odette’s hand in both of hers.  
  
“You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?”  
  
Odette nodded, smiling before Giuseppina once more rushed out, leaving them alone. Mérante considered leaving and waiting in the foyer, but looked to the Odette and found himself too curious to simply walk away.  
  
For her part, Odette also seemed to realize they were alone. She stiffened and looked to him, and seemed decidedly less happy about it, although he wasn’t sure why.  
  
“I should be going as well,” she said, stepping towards the door.  
  
“One moment, mademoiselle,” he said, raising a hand to stop her. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on today’s rehearsal.”  
  
“My thoughts?”  
  
“Yes. I’ve heard that rehearsal wasn’t quite… ideal.”  
  
“It was her first day- give her some peace,” Odette said, sharper than he would have expected. It was also quite rude.  
  
“I meant no offense,” he said, putting up his hands in mock surrender. “It’s only what I’ve heard. And I know Saint-Leon can have quite high expectations.”  
  
“I assure you, she’ll do great. She’s just under a lot of pressure. And, well, the other dancers- and myself- were not exactly welcoming,” she finished in a softer voice.  
  
“Oh? Is that so?”  
  
She didn’t reply but only looked at her feet. Where was the bright dancer he had just seen?  
  
He clasped his hands behind his back and strode forward with long, slow strides as if walking along a boulevard, watching her. As they had talked he had tried to remember everything he knew about this girl, and hadn’t come up with much.  
  
Odette Emarot. A quiet girl, so much so he rarely knew she was present, a true wallflower. Seemed to lack the drive to progress, although had recently advanced to _coryphée_ during the last exams. Was considered cold to the other dancers. Stand-offish. Rarely interacted with them and almost unknown to the _abonnes_. A strange kind of girl. Especially since the girl currently standing before him had changed so completely from before, it was like she was another person.  
  
She didn’t move as he walked, her shoulders almost to her ears as she glared straight ahead, sending a very clear message that he pointedly ignored.  
  
“Is there anything else you need of me, monsieur?” she finally said.  
  
He stopped his pacing and stood before her, hands clasped behind his back. In response, she stiffened and pulled her head down and back, like a bird about to peck.  
  
“You danced very well, just now,” Mérante said. “You should dance like that in rehearsal.”  
  
“I was only fooling around. I didn’t think anyone had been watching,” she said as if ashamed. Any other dancer and he would have passed it off as false modesty, but she truly seemed embarrassed by it.  
  
“Is that all?” Odette asked.  
  
Leaning back on his heels, he nodded. “Yes. You’re excused.”  
  
“Thank you, monsieur.”  
  
Truthfully, he would have liked to talk with her more, but even he couldn’t disregard her strong dislike for him. What had he done to cause it?  
  
He watched her leave and found himself alone in the practice room and for a minute didn’t move but let the silence settle around him. It had seemed so much brighter and fuller when they had danced. He nearly forgot how wonderful it felt to dance with such joy in your heart, even when he was only an observer. The wonderful and intangible power of dance…  
  
But he couldn’t stay. Dusk was slipping in through the windows and he had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> Louis Mérante was a real-life dancer and ballet-master (and later, choreographer) at the Paris Opera.  
> I am fudging a fair bit about him: in this story (as in the movie) he is not married and I’m making him significantly younger. In 1870 he would have been 42, but for this story he is 29 (while Odette is 21). He really did study dance at the Scala theater in Milan.
> 
> Mérante references training for the opera, La Prophete, which was performed on January 19th, its only performance in 1870 (hence why they needed a little bit of extra help and training!)

**Author's Note:**

> It begins! Ugh, finally.  
> You can probably guess who the myserious watcher is ;)  
> This is going to be much more of a historical fiction than most fanfictions, and I am determined to see it finished one day. Wish me luck!


End file.
